


you got a piece of me

by AugustaByron



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M, Polyamory, Wooing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2016-05-18
Packaged: 2018-06-08 11:30:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6852844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AugustaByron/pseuds/AugustaByron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack looks at his boyfriend, at his bed, at the idiot currently in it. He knows, deep in his gut, that this is only partially his own fault. At least fifty percent of this is definitely on Kent. </p><p>The Falconers want Jack to woo Kent Parson. This may not have been exactly what they meant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you got a piece of me

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a short cracky thing about accidental wooing, and somehow this happened instead. Many thanks to V for the beta!
> 
> Title from Kelly Clarkson, "My Life Would Suck Without You."
> 
> Warnings for: Ableist language. References to Jack's past drug use. 
> 
> Check, Please belongs to Ngozi.

“So, are we doing this?”

Jack looks at Bitty, who raises his eyebrows. Then he looks back at his bed, where Parse is sprawled, still wearing one sock. He is wearing nothing else.

“C'mon, Zimms. Put your money where your mouth is.” Kent smirks and licks his lips. It should look ridiculous. Jack feels his traitorous body respond, Pavlovian. Stop that, he thinks, desperately. Or not? He's not sure.

“You did say you wanted to show him what he'd be missing,” Bitty mutters out of the side of his mouth.

Jack looks at his boyfriend, at his bed, at the idiot currently in it. He knows, deep in his gut, that this is only partially his own fault. At least fifty percent of this is definitely on Kent.

 

Maybe he should back up.

 

Jack couldn't have heard right. He puts down his fork and waits for Georgia to crack a smile, or for Tater to jump out with a camera, or anything else to reveal that this is a prank.

“I'm sorry,” Jack says, when none of that happens. “Could you repeat that?”

“I need you to woo Kent Parson,” Georgia repeats. She leans across the table and adds, “This is important.”

Jack looks down at his breakfast, feeling faintly betrayed. When George said that she wanted to talk to him, he did not expect this. Part of him, he's willing to admit to himself, expected the offer to turn his A into a C. The Falconers went the whole of last season without a captain, and Jack has been--

Well. That's not what's happening, he guesses. But--

“Could you please repeat that again?” Jack asks.

 

Kent is going to be an unrestricted free agent in a little less than a month. He's apparently keeping tight-lipped about where he wants to go. Jack hasn't really been following it. He broke an ankle in the playoffs and he's been focusing on rehabbing it. Plus Bitty's got a lot going on right now, fielding an offer to film a pilot for a show on the food channel. They're discussing coming out. It's been a busy time.

Georgia claims that Parse wants to play with Jack again. Actually, she says, clearly exasperated, “Everyone knows that, he's like a kid with a crush.”

Jack does not agree. Some comments at last year's All Star Game, fresh off a resurrected Zimmermann-Parson No-Look One-Timer, when Kent had been drinking God only knows what out of his “water” bottle all day, should not count. Neither could Kent be held to some voicemails left in the middle of the night when they were nineteen.

“We've got nothing else he wants,” George says flatly, cutting into her waffle with more intensity than necessary. “The money, sure, but everyone has that. We're a small city when he's used to a big one, we're not his childhood team, and it's a whole different style of playing.”

She's right about that. The Aces have been dwindling away their core over the last few seasons, to retirement or trades, and Kent's mostly being used as a sniper. The Falconers don't need that. They need another playmaker, a solid two-way forward. Not even necessarily a center. And Parse has done that before, but maybe not since Rimouski.

“And you want me to--” Jack lets it hang in the air. He's pretty sure what George is asking him, but he wants to be certain. If he convinces Parse to sign with the Falconers, he's basically guaranteeing that he'll never get anything but his A. They won't let Kent Parson go without a letter.

“Take him out to dinner, reminisce about the good times,” George says. “Are you seriously going to act like you don't want to play with him again? The guy's got Cup written all over him.”

Jack has to admit that there was something almost magical about having Kent on his wing again, in the All Star Game, drunk or not. Like something clicking back into place.

“Okay,” he agrees.

 

“Uh, sure?” Kent says, when Jack asks him to come visit. There's a lot of noise where he is, on the other end of the phone. He sounds like he's not sure what's going on. “I actually wanted to talk to you about something, dude. You're sure you want me to come out to Providence? Doesn't your guy kind of hate me?”

“Bittle doesn't hate anyone,” Jack says, which is not true. Before they moved, Bitty hated the guy who lived upstairs and always vacuumed at midnight. And for a while he hated the Falconers' nutritionist, until they made some kind of deal that allowed Jack to eat pie again.

Also, Bitty hates Kent.

“Okay,” Parse agrees, still doubtful. “I'll be there.”

 

Bitty makes up the bigger guest room with frosty good manners. Jack regrets some choices.

“I don't suppose you know where the air freshener is?” Bitty asks, like the whole house doesn't smell like clean laundry and summertime.

“I think there's some in the bathroom cabinet.” Jack knows he will regret this, but he dives in anyway. “Are you sure you don't have a problem with Parse coming?”

“Why would I have a problem?” Bitty says, smoothing out the bedspread. There is a total absence of anger in his voice. Jack is nervous. This is how Bittle sounds when Coach's mother asks if he's met a nice girl yet, even though she's met Jack twice now. “I'm sure I don't know why I would. It's just your ex-boyfriend who's coming to visit.”

A new awareness dawns. Jack grabs Bitty around the waist and tugs him close.

“Are you jealous of Parse?” A weight lifts off of Jack's shoulders. This, he can fix. This is just Bitty being a dumbass.

“What?” Bitty squawks. He pushes ineffectually at Jack's arm. “Jack Zimmermann, let me go right now!”

Jack loosens his grip, but Bitty nestles back against his chest instead of pulling away. He presses a kiss into Bitty's hair. “You know that there's no reason for you to be jealous. Of anyone. Ever. For the rest of our lives.”

“Sweetheart,” Bitty says, and they stay like that for a minute, just looking out the window into their yard. The garden is coming in nicely.

“Well, it's just that I wonder sometimes,” Bitty says after a moment. He's squirming a little. “You know. What would you have thought of me when you were in high school? Would we have gotten together?”

“Oh, Bittle, no,” Jack says, heart aching with fondness. He buries his face in golden hair. “Because you were in grade five when I met Parse. And I was hopped up on pills.”

“Oh, you!” Bitty swats at Jack and actually steps away, but he stops adjusting the covers on the bed. “Well, I suppose he can stay. He's your hockey soulmate, after all.”

“You've been reading those links that Ransom and Holster sent you again, haven't you?”

 

Kent shows up in a cherry-red Ferrari, twitchy, and dressed like someone who thinks he's going to be recognized. There's a Yankees cap pulled down over his face, his sunglasses are stupid, and he is muscular in ways that still surprise Jack, even though he's been this way for years. Part of him will probably always be expecting the rangy, half-formed teenage Parse who snored next to him on a thousand roadies.

But not if Parse moves to Providence, Jack reminds himself. He's got to woo.

“You're not dying, are you?” Parse asks as soon as Jack answers the door, instead of saying hello.

“No,” Jack says, bemused.

“And your ankle is really okay, you're not out?” Kent demands. “If you made me come across the country to hear that you're out, Jack, I am going to punch you. I don't care if you're a cripple now, I'm going to do it.”

“I don't think that New York counts as across the country. It's healing fine, I started skating again a week ago. And don't say cripple, fuckhead.” Jack steps aside to let Kent into the house. Kent seizes him in the kind of brief back-slapping hug that Shitty hates. Jack does his best to reciprocate.

“Okay, so what's with the cloak and dagger?” Kent asks as soon as Jack lets him go. “Nice digs, dude, who decorated? Because I'm pretty sure it wasn't you, the wallpaper doesn't just say 'be better' over and over.”

“I like that poster,” Jack protests. “Can't I just want to see you?”

“Uh, historically, no,” Parse says. He's examining the living room with interest. Bittle's mom and Jack's mom picked out most of the stuff, and it's a nice blend of homey and class, in Jack's opinion. Bittle always says he's just glad that none of the fabrics stain easily, because the Falconers are disgusting.

Jack falls back on what's always worked with Kent. “Are you hungry?”

“Starving,” Kent replies immediately. Jack's not sure he ever has a different answer. “Are you going to feed me or what?”

 

The problem is that Jack has not wooed anyone before. With Bittle, he was kind of a dick for a year and then spent another flirting ineptly. Bitty did most of the emotional heavy lifting.

With Kent, back in the Q, it was a sexually loaded celly that led to a really awkward exchange of handjobs in the showers, and then they just never stopped.

What Jack is saying is that he asked Shitty what to do. And after he stopped chirping Jack about it, he gave some pretty good advice.

“Bro, start with reminiscing. You're supposed to show him what he's been missing, right?”

In the restaurant, waiting to order, Jack gives it a shot.

“So, remember Juniors?”

Kent puts down his menu and eyeballs Jack for a minute.

“Yeah, Zimms,” he says after a long pause. “I think I've got that one pretty well stored in the old noodle.”

Jack struggles to come up with a second line. There is a minor issue in that Jack does not reliably remember Juniors, because he spent the entire time either in a haze of panic or stoned. It all blurs together: practice, games, school, Parse.

There was that time that Parse dragged him out into a blizzard because his billet family's dog got out the yard and Kent wanted to get it back before they got home. Jack figures that's a pretty good story. He opens his mouth to ask Kent if he remembers, too, but then the waitress shows up.

Parse orders way too much food. Jack follows his diet. He's pretty sure if he breaks his diet for anything other than Bittle's cooking, the Falcs' nutritionist will sense it.

“What's up with you, anyway?” Kent asks as soon as they're alone again. He's staring at Jack, brow furrowed into a frown. “Is your family okay? Bob's not sick or anything? Your mom is good?”

“Why do you think I have bad news?” Jack asks, and Kent just laughs.

“Okay, fine,” he says. “What do you want to talk about? It must be a big deal if you needed me to come out in person. ”

“I thought we could just catch up,” Jack says, desperately. Woo. How does he woo? He pulls out the big guns. “I miss you.”

“I always say that,” Parse says, but he softens. Barely, but it's there. “So what's going on with the fam, anyway? I haven't talked to Bad Bob in a minute.”

Jack is so in.

 

 _Bringing Parse back to the house_ , Jack texts when they're on their way out of the restaurant. Dinner was good. Unexpectedly good. It turns out that Parse does remember that time they wandered around in waist-high snow looking for a shih tzu.

Bitty texts back a single smiley face, which means he's still not okay with Kent staying the night, but it's fine. Jack knows now that Bitty just doesn't like Parse. Jack can't blame him. He barely likes Parse, most days. Parse is basically an asshole.

But there's a cold case of beer in the fridge when they get there, and Bitty is smiling. “Welcome! Glad you could make it.”

“Uh,” Parse says. “Hi?”

“I don't know if you remember me,” Bitty says, and Jack feels himself start to sweat a little. Bittle is _not pleased_ , he is going to be in so much trouble. It will probably be worth it. He and Kent together are going to win multiple Stanley Cups. Bitty will probably forgive him. “We met at a Haus party.”

“Dude,” Parse says, grinning loosely. “I know who you are, you're Zimms' better half. Eric Bittle, right? My boy Poots says your cookies are like crack.”

Jack recognizes this shit. This is Kent being charming. He wants to growl out a warning. He and Bitty need to keep their wits about them. They have to woo.

But Bitty isn't going to fall for it the way girls did at Rimouski house parties. There's no way.

Bitty blushes a little, and says, “Well, that's kind of him!”

Jack despairs.

 

“And you know what?” Parse says, a few beers in, “We never found his pants.”

Bitty is laughing himself to tears on the other side of the couch. Kent winks at Jack and tips his beer in a silent toast. Jack, ensconced in an armchair, is well on his way to drunk, and can no longer feel embarrassment over stupid shit he did as a teenager.

He's feeling happy and buzzy under his skin, and maybe too far away from the couch. Parse and Bitty are laughing, exchanging stupid stories about Jack. Bitty is flushing and tipping steadily towards Parse on the couch. Jack wants, very badly, to be sitting in between them.

Maybe it would be a good thing to have Parse on the Falcs. Especially if Bitty is starting to like him. Now Jack just needs to seal the deal.

“Hey, Kent,” he says, getting a brilliant idea. “You want to play one on one?”

 

“Why the hell do you have an extra pair of roller blades? Why the hell do you have any roller blades?”

The long answer is that Tater has what Bitty calls “baby fever” and likes to come play street hockey with the kids on the block, since he lives in a condo.

The short answer, and the one Jack goes with, is, “Shut the fuck up and get your skates on, Parson.”

“Are you supposed to be doing this? Aren't you supposed to rest your ankle?” Parse demands, even as he laces up the spare rollerblades. They've got a can of dingy tennis balls to use as pucks, and the streetlights to see by.

“What are you, scared?” Jack tosses Parse a stick, and he grabs it, stares at Jack with something strange on his face. Like he's trying to figure something out.

“You're stealing all my lines today, Zimmermann.” But Parse stands up and skates a little ways away from the curb, tentative. “Fuck, it's been forever since I've done this.”

“You're just saying that because you know I'm going to kick your ass.”

And then Kent is squaring up, flashing a grin that Jack remembers. He has dreams about that goddamn grin.

“You're on, Zimms.”

And then Kent steals the ball, like a dick, and is off.

 

Next goal wins.

They are taking a brief break, collapsed on their backs on the lawn. The grass is cool under Jack, and he pants, getting his breath back. There's really nothing like playing against Kent, even if it's just ball hockey.

“What are you gonna give me when I win?” Kent asks. He's sprawled out next to Jack, legs and arms akimbo, nearly kicking Jack in the side. Jack closes his eyes and doesn't move away.

“When I win,” Jack says. He presses his hands into the damp ground and wonders if Bitty is watching, from the window. The thought makes him warm all over. That and the beers from earlier.

“So what am I gonna give you if I take pity and let you win?” Kent asks, not missing a beat.

“Tell me where you're going. Next month. Where are you signing?”

There's only silence. Then, Kent says, “Fuck, Zimms. That's not the spirit of the evening.”

“Come here,” Jack says. “If I win. Sign with the Falcs.”

“Fuck,” Kent says again, and there's a faint rustle as he sits up. Jack opens his eyes. Kent is silhouetted against the orange glow of the street lamps. He is looking at Jack again. “What if I win?”

“Come here anyway,” Jack says. Forget what Shitty told him about subtlety. He doesn't need that shit. He and Kent should be playing together. People write stories on the internet about how much they should be playing together. “Kenny. Come on. You belong with us. I asked you to come here so I could show you what you're missing.”

“I think,” Bitty says, from somewhere above them. Jack jumps: he hadn't even noticed Bitty come out of the house. “That you boys better come inside now, huh?”

 

“Honestly,” Bitty fusses, getting Jack a glass of water. “Two grown men like you trying to bet something like that over a game of ball hockey.”

“It seemed like a good idea,” Jack offers. He is sitting at the table, where Bitty put him. Kent disappeared into the bathroom a few minutes ago and hasn't emerged. “At the time.”

“I'm sure it did, sweetheart.” Bitty hands Jack the water and smooths his hair down. “How are you feeling?”

“I'm a professional hockey player, Bittle, it takes more than four beers to get me drunk,” Jack says. Bitty rolls his eyes and leans down to kiss Jack on the forehead.

“I know,” Bitty says. “I wasn't asking if you were drunk, honey. I was asking how you're feeling.”

Jack closes his eyes to assess. It's not very easy, because Kent hit him in the gut with a stick, so maybe he's just feeling that instead of real emotional pain. He can't exactly tell.

“I think I actually want him to come play here,” Jack admits, which wasn't the case when George told him to do this, or yesterday, or even earlier today.

Bitty makes a small noise, a hum. Jack opens his eyes. Bittle is smiling down at him, a soft smile. “Well, maybe you should just go tell him that. Instead of going through all this.”

And that—sounds like pretty good advice. Jack gets up and heads down the hall to the bathroom. Jack asked Kent if they were really dating, back in the Q, while Parse drunkenly pissed on a tree, so it's not like this is super out of the norm for them.

But the bathroom door is open, and Parse is nowhere to be seen. Jack continues down the hallway to the open door of the master bedroom. There's a light on in there. Maybe Parse is attempting some lame prank?

Instead, Kent is in the middle of taking off his pants.

“What the fuck,” Jack says, flat. “Are you going to put your ass on something?”

Parse looks up, startled, and almost falls over. It's only Jack's hand, catching his shoulder, that keeps him on his feet.

“Shit,” Kent says, “I was hoping this would be smoother. Where's your boy?”

“You've got to stop calling him that,” Jack says, because he does not want Parse forming a habit, here. “Kent. Why are your pants off?”

“Uh. This was your idea, dude. You've been sending signals all day, and I figured—I mean, it's been a while since I did this with two dudes, but whatever. Seems like a good time, right?”

Jack, needing a minute to process, pushes Kent so he falls onto the bed. Unfortunately, Parse seems to take this as encouragement, and finishes taking off his pants, now with a leer on his face. When did Parse make the switch from boxers, Jack wonders, and then his brain comes back online.

What Jack needs to do is retreat.

“I, uh, Bitty,” he says, backing out the room. He closes the bedroom door after him.

“Yeah, dude, hurry up!” Parse calls. “I still need to finish kicking your ass later.”

Jack practically runs back to the kitchen, where Bitty is scrolling through something on his phone. He looks up when Jack enters, and frowns.

“You look like you've seen a ghost,” he says. “Parson didn't take it well?”

A hysterical laugh threatens to bubble out of Jack. He cannot think about Parse _taking_ anything right now.

“He's, um, he's naked?” Or he probably is now. Parse always stripped fast.

Bitty blinks at him, slowly. “Did he explain why he's naked?”

The only way out is through. Jack blurts it out as fast as he can. “He thinks that we want to have a threesome.” He holds very still, waiting to see what will happen next.

“Babe,” Bitty says, absolutely dripping with patience. “Could you please explain a little more, here?”

“I, um, no?” Jack is lost. This is not what he expected to happen. And half of his mind is still stuck on the fact that Kent looks just as good shirtless now as he did when they were sixteen, when Jack had never had another person touch his dick. He always assumed that his memories were rosy with the passage of time, or something. It's disheartening to find out otherwise. “He says I was giving signals. That we were giving signals.”

Bitty sighs heavily. He puts his phone down on the counter, the ultimate sign that he is giving Jack his full attention. “Okay. I will come fix this. He's in our room?”

Jack trails along after Bittle as he strides towards the bedroom. He hovers over Bitty's shoulder as he opens the door, and takes in the sight of Parse.

“Oh! My,” Bitty murmurs. His eyes are widening and his breath is quickening. Jack waits to feel jealous, the way he does when Bitty talks about that guy from the Captain America movies, but it never comes. “Well, maybe we should at least consider it? He does look, you know. _You_ know.”

“Oh, hey,” Parse says, like he's just noticed them standing there. “So, are we doing this?”

Jack looks at Bitty, who raises his eyebrows. Then he looks back at his bed, where Parse is sprawled, still wearing one sock. He is wearing nothing else.

“C'mon, Zimms. Put your money where your mouth is.” Kent smirks and licks his lips. It should look ridiculous. Jack feels his traitorous body respond, Pavlovian. Stop that, he thinks, desperately. Or not? He's not sure.

“You did say you wanted to show him what he'd be missing,” Bitty mutters out of the side of his mouth.

Jack looks at his boyfriend, at his bed, at the idiot currently in it. He knows, deep in his gut, that this is only partially his own fault. At least fifty percent of this is definitely on Kent.

Bitty takes Jack's hand.

“It's up to you, honey,” he says, quiet, just for Jack's ears. “But I wouldn't mind. I mean, look at him. Look at _you_. You're practically glowing.”

Jack takes a deep breath. Squeezes Bittle's hand. “Yeah, we're doing this.”

“Awesome,” Kent says, grinning. “Get your giant ass in here, Zimms. I want you to watch me blow your boyfriend.”

Bitty squeaks, and Jack feels himself smiling in response. Time for another famous Zimmermann-Parson play.

 

The next morning, Kent steals the sports section of the paper and uses Jack's favorite mug. He still drinks his coffee with way too much cream in it, so it's practically white. Jack feels a pleasant twinge in his chest at the sight.

Or maybe on his chest. From the hickeys. It's hard to separate them.

“So, the only reason you wanted me to visit was to tip me into your bed of sin?” Parse asks. Bitty laughs, eyes bright over his own cup of coffee.

“And because management wanted Jack to talk you into coming to the Falcs.”

“Huh.” Kent doesn't say anything for a minute, and then adds, “This was kind of a one-time deal, though, dude.”

Bitty looks to Jack, dry, and says, “We weren't looking to put a ring on it, Parson.”

So Bitty still hates Parse a little, Jack realizes. That's okay. That's actually the most normal thing about this weekend.

“I mean, I only get so many free passes,” Kent says cheerfully. “I exchanged my Angelina Jolie get out of jail free card for last night. You should feel fucking honored, Zimms.”

“You did what?” There is something tugging at Jack's brain. “Are you dating someone?”

“Yeah, dude,” Parse says, like it's no big deal. Bitty's eyes widen, and Jack wants to know what his own face is doing. He can't actually feel it moving, but that doesn't mean anything. “I spent like ten minutes hiding in your bathroom last night, negotiating this shit with Stephanie. She was cool about it, even though I didn't take any pictures for her.”

Jack just stays silent. Parse is looking very studiously down at his eggs. There's something else. This is Kent Parson babbling. There's always something else.

“That's actually what I wanted to talk to you about. Steph and I are kind of getting married, and I wanted to check if it was cool that I'm inviting your parents. And you two, obviously, but I didn't want to make shit weird with your dad.” Parse takes a giant bite of his eggs, and chews loudly.

“Of course,” Jack says. “Parse, man, congratulations. This girl must be a saint, eh?”

Kent just laughs, loud and obnoxious. “You have no idea. She's got the same horrible taste in men as Bittle here. They should start a fucking club.”

Jack feels Bitty's smile turning more chilly and polite than ever, and jumps in to cover up whatever menacingly nice Southern thing Bitty's going to whip out. “Better finish your breakfast, Parse. We have a game to finish, eh?”

 

“So where are you signing?” Jack asks Parse as they're squaring off, ready to resume their game of ball hockey. Next goal still wins.

He meant it, last night. Kent should come play here. They could win so many Stanley Cups.

“C'mon, Zimms.” Parse looks up and smirks at him. “Better win this game if you really want to find out.”

Jack smirks back, and steals the ball. It's on.

 


End file.
